


Mice

by Noemail



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manga Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noemail/pseuds/Noemail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When years pass and he walks in through the same study door he doesn’t get a heavenly vision. He doesn’t get cherubs or a weeping Mary. Nicolas sits bathed in blood over his father’s corpse, eyes reflecting the light in a way that makes them appear to be glowing. He’s no angel but he’s the only thing Worick’s got left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mice

When he’s six and he’s still Wallace, Worick tries to climb up the bookshelf in his father's’ study. He’s flipped through all the books at the bottom and wants to get his hands on the ones at the very top. The bookshelf is beautiful, rich mahogany, but it’s old and dusty just like every other thing on the estate. Worick puts his left foot up on the first bracket and pushes himself upward. It wobbles under his weight but he keeps going, small hands palming blindly to find the next one to hold on to. Suddenly he slips and instinctively grips at the sides of the bookshelf with both hands. When he looks up the piece of furniture is looming over him, big and imposing like a falling fortress.  He’s quick on his feet and gets out of its trajectory but still manages to be a witness to it crashing onto the ground, the wood breaking into a thousand pieces with a loud crack. Worick stands by the door, breathing quickly, taking in the quiet aftermath. The silence doesn’t last for long.

Though old and abandoned the bookshelf was still expensive so later on his father lets him have it. Worick knows the woodworms got to it first, he knows it would have collapsed one day or another with or without his little stunt. He knows that the brackets were crooked, that the books were worn and the pages crumpled and that his father couldn’t care less about that decaying piece of furniture. Worick lets his father do the screaming and yelling, he keeps quiet. Beyond a few muttered complaints for the first few strikes, he keeps quiet.

It happens he’s a child but he still remembers it vividly. He remembers the maids claiming his uninjured escape a miracle, three of them coming into the room after hearing the ruckus and gathering around him. _He must have an angel_. They’d murmured between them, bewildered by the fact that there wasn’t a scratch on him despite the scale of the disaster. One of them had kneeled before him and held his shoulders and it was not until he grew older that Worick realised there was greed in her eyes, not concern. It was provincial superstition. They wanted a share of his luck before his father came to shake it out of him. _An angel, an angel. Arcangelo._

When years pass and he walks in through the same study door he doesn’t get a heavenly vision. He doesn’t get cherubs or a weeping Mary. Nicolas sits bathed in blood over his father’s corpse, eyes reflecting the light in a way that makes them appear to be glowing. He’s no angel but he’s the only thing Worick’s got left.

\---

“You filthy rat!” The butcher is yelling and Nicolas can tell because his mouth is fully open, his chest puffed out. He’s snuck in here twice this week and he knows it’s unwise to repeat venues but Worick said they need to eat something other than stale bread and there’s not another butcher’s for miles. More than once the old man has managed to strike him because despite his good reflexes the man is big, much bigger than him. “Get your grubby hands off the counter!”

Nicolas has what he needs in the pockets of his jacket. He’s close enough to the door to make a run for it but then the butcher grabs his arm. The man lifts him up ‘til his feet don’t touch the floor and his skin burns under his grip.

“Your kind ain’t welcome here. Everything you touch rots, you squalid mouse.” The man’s grip tightens, shaking him as he speaks, and Nicolas flinches.“You leave behind maggots and disease and I can’t sell spoilt goods.”

Nicolas snarls at the man. He’s close and Nicolas can smell the cheap beer on his breath. He struggles to escape his grasp and the other barks a laugh at his discomfort.

“He’s not a mouse, mister. He’s a street cat.” The butcher’s gaze moves and Nicolas follows it. Worick is standing at the doorstep with his hands in his pockets. “If you’re not careful the claws will come out and you don’t want a nasty scratch on a chiseled face such as yours, do you?”

“Look who came out the sewers.” The man says, and lets go of Nicolas to walk towards the door. Worick calmly takes out a wad of bills out his pocket and licks his thumb to start counting. The butcher stops in his tracks and Worick looks past him to Nicolas. He stays behind the man and after he rubs at the reddened skin of his wrist he looks up to meet Worick’s gaze. He signals _show off_. Worick grins.

“We don’t want any trouble, mister. My friend here just came to browse the shop, I’ve got the cash.”

“You’ve been stealing from my storage room for weeks, you parasites. You think I’ll believe you suddenly got rich?”

“I don’t know, these seem pretty real to me.” Worick sing-songs, flapping a bill in the air. The butcher keeps quiet and Worick half smiles, keeping an eye on Nicolas. They both know this man is greedy and as smart as a bag of rocks and they’ve been milking that for weeks. “What do you say we make it fifty for the grand total and you throw in some ham too, mh?”

The butcher closes in and snatches the money from Worick’s hand. Nicolas’ eyes widen and he reaches for his sword but Worick lifts a hand.

“Everything in order?” He says, watching as the other counts the money. The man grumbles and without looking up grabs a small ham leg that was hanging from one of the hooks in the ceiling. He throws it over his shoulder at Nicolas and as soon as the other catches it Worick puts all of his strength into kicking the butcher in the shin.

“Fuck!” He groans, lifting an arm to backhand him.“You little bastard!” Nicolas kicks the back of his knee and the man curls over in pain. The bills escape his grasp and fly up in the air before floating down to the ground. They do it so slow and delicately that the butcher has time to notice they're just pieces of paper crayoned green. Worick collects them quickly and leaves the other a parting gift in the form of a self satisfied smirk.

“I’m so sorry. We _do_ love to contribute to the local economy but we’re a little tight.” He says, then they both run out the door.

“You oughta be exterminated!” Worick can still hear him in the distance and he cackles, tugging on Nic’s jacket to warn him when he wishes to make a sharp turn into an alleyway. They make their way up the fire escape stairway of some empty building, their breath sharp when they reach the rooftop. Worick sits down and lets himself fall back to lay on the concrete, laughing loud and breathless. Nicolas sits down as well, slowly, blood pumping fast and throbbing in his temples. He’s quiet, catching his breath, but when he looks over at Worick a small smile forms on his lips.

“Shit, will someone ever _not_ fall for it?” Worick chuckles, sitting up. He wipes at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand then looks up at the other. Nicolas meets his gaze and hands him the ham leg. Immediately, without hesitation. Worick smiles but doesn’t take it. “Your pockets are bursting. Whaddya got in there?”

Nicolas blinks. He turns out his pockets and three huge bologna sausages roll out. Worick snorts.

“Jesus, Nic. You were hungry, huh?” He chuckles, taking two pieces of bread out his left front pocket. He hands one to Nicolas and watches him bite into it. “Well come on, let’s slice them up. You got a perfectly good blade there.”

He gestures to his sword and Nicolas looks horrified. Worick laughs.

“I know I know, just teasing.” He says. He reaches into the waist of his pants, under his belt, and pulls out a switchblade. Its shiny and it looks expensive and he’s had it ever since Nicolas can remember. He thinks it might have been his father's.

Worick cuts up the meat and they eat. Nicolas chews slowly, savouring the food, and Worick watches him with curiosity and amusement. He catches himself having this fascination for the other which he knows he shouldn’t have, especially after the incident, but which he has anyway. Suddenly Nicolas seems to remember something and stops eating, rummaging through his pockets. He takes out an already started pack of smokes and hands it over to Worick.

“I didn’t know the old man smoked.” Worick says, eyes lighting up at the sight of the carton. Nicolas shakes his head.

 _From a woman’s purse._ He signals. Worick smiles, taking the box.

“Told you you’d make a good pick-pocket with those tiny hands!” He says, putting the carton in the back pocket of his jeans. Nicolas tilts his head.

_Not now?_

“Tastes better after a meal.” Worick says. He starts eating again and watches Nicolas gnawing on a slice of bologna and he smiles because they’re here and they’ve made it through another day. They’re surviving, or at least trying to, in the rancid hole that is Ergastulum. Neither of them likes it here but they don’t really have anywhere else to go and neither of them knows anything else. They figure they’re better off sticking with the devil they know than trying to deal with the one they don’t. It’s hard, every day is a fight, but there are good moments. Their feast on the rooftop is one that stays in Worick’s mind, amongst all the shit and the guilt. It sticks out like a beacon of light and makes Worick’s nights easier to sleep through.

\---

Good memory is a terrible gift. Worick knows because what once helped him drift off to sleep now keeps him awake at night. That insomnia has never been as powerful as it is when night falls on the day they retrieve Yang, Delico and Nicolas from the scene. He could already feel it starting to creep in the back of his mind when Theo mentioned Nicolas had offered to be a guinea pig for his new drug. The detail that this was in exchange for free visits escaped Worick’s train of thought. His brain framed it as a noble gesture, something for the greater good, instead of self-preservation which is what it really was. It had started back then, with his poor judgement, which is how many things  got started with Worick.

“Stay still, _Christ_.” He hisses, holding Nicolas down. His hands press on his shoulders as the other convulses and with all his attention on keeping him laying down one would think he’d miss small details - but he doesn’t. He doesn’t miss him swatting the downer out of Theo’s hand. He doesn’t miss him biting his lip until it splits, head thrown back into the stretcher with sweat dripping down his neck. _You selfless, magnanimous bastard_. He thinks, gritting his teeth. _Who do you think you are?_

“I’m continuing. Scalpel.” Theo speaks and what Worick hears doesn’t surprise him. The doctor has given him an opportunity and when Nicolas refuses to let his suffering go to waste he doesn’t hesitate. Getting some use out of him so it can help others, even if it is on his dying breath, remains the priority. Theo is human, but he’s a man of medicine. And a man of medicine that has seen this much death knows better than to get attached.

Worick can understand Theo’s ethics. He might not share them, but he does understand. What he doesn’t understand is Nics’ lack of desperation for survival and it makes him angry because next to it he feels low and primitive. A coward. Nicolas moves again, restless and wild, and Worick’s grip on his shoulders tighten. _Are you too good to want to stay alive?_

When Nicolas kicks him on his side Worick winces from the pain. Blood flows to the injury below his ribs and it throbs powerful and merciless. He blacks out momentarily, only coming to when Alex walks into the room and holds him back and away from the other. Alex holds Nic’s hand and Worick warns her of the others’ brute strength but she refuses to let go. It’s the unselfishness of that act that makes Worick realise that the lies he’s told himself no longer hold up, the ones that have allowed him to live with himself until that point. He moves away from them both, walking backwards until the heel of his foot grazes the wall, and stares at the commotion with a blank expression.

“Worick!” He hears, and his gaze moves down. Nina’s calling his attention. She tugs on his arm once before rushing to attend Yang’s wounds but Worick doesn’t respond.

Who’s he to play moral judge on Theo’s ethics? At least the man is honest. He on the contrary has built this elaborate farce where he believes himself to be merciful. After all, he’s treated Nicolas as an equal. Right? _Sit in the chair, not on the floor, you’re not an animal. Break bread with me, we worked together to get it._ He hates twilights and normals alike, so who’s he trying to kid? The reality of him being a helpless sheltered child feels so far away yet despite him wanting to he can’t exactly call himself independent. He can’t function without a bodyguard, a shield, a safety net, and when Nicolas swats the downer away from Theo’s hand Worick’s anger stems from the situation being completely out of his control. Just as when Nicolas had held his sword to his throat, all those years ago, his father’s blood still hot and splattered on his skin. How dare you want to die. _You’ll live and suffer_. Its pure egoism and Worick can only conceal his true nature from himself for so long. He wants Nicolas alive but he wants him alive _on his terms_.

It’s around midnight when everything quiets down. Theo nods off whilst sat on a chair behind his desk and Nina sleeps curled up on the clinic couch. Worick is wide awake.

\---

The sun rises at six and Worick has not slept a wink. He curses his memory because he remembers fucking everything and it’s unbearable when it all mixes with his personal epiphany of sorts, not letting him rest. _You’ll die filled with painful memories_. Thats what he’d said to him, the strongest threat he could muster. Even at such a young age he already knew it was torture. The ones he has are happy, wants them to stay that way, but they’re all rotting at the sight of the other lying down with eyes closed on the bed. There’s afternoons of sign language lessons, both of them sat on the floor of the estate’s library. Mornings of basking in the sun on rooftops after feasting on stolen meats, after running from pissed off-butchers.There’s jokes and a smile and bread crumbs stuck to the other’s cheeks. All rotten.

He’s sitting on the floor, at the feet of Nic’s bed, eyes closed and head in his hands to try and get rid of the sleep-deprived headache. Breathing in he looks up, running a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back until it meets the wall. Its early and it’s quiet and he’s glad because his mind is loud enough.

“Worick.” He hears, dragging his gaze towards the voice. Alex stands at the doorway with a pot of coffee in her hands. There are dark circles around her eyes.

The caffeine clears his head and he’s not as jittery as he was at dawn. Alex insists on him eating something but his appetite is gone. She pours him another cup and Worick notices her bandaged hand.

“You okay?” He says. “Does it hurt?”

Alex looks up and blinks once. Woricks gaze lowers to her hand. “Oh.” She says “It’s- It’s fine. He didn’t break it, I just got a few scratches. Its just sore.”

She smiles softly and Worick wonders how someone that has been beaten down by life as much as Alex has it in her to smile at all. _This is nothing!_  She’d said, her grip on Nic’s hand firm and unyielding. Worick had known the moment she emptied the gun’s chamber on Barry’s corpse that she would survive, with or without their help. Maybe it was in another of his selfish wishes for warmth and tenderness that he took it upon himself to suggest her to stay. Now even when Worick told her to leave Ergastulum, for her own sake, she wouldn’t budge. She was too good a person to remain in that place but Worick figured she found herself between a rock and a hard place, after all she had nowhere to go either. It was that or she’d decided to have mercy on the both of them. On these two volatile, directionless individuals - like two blind mice. Too scared to ever leave their hole but still trying desperately to claw their way out.

 _A few scratches, she says_. Worick thinks, half a smile on his face as he cups his cheek with his left hand - elbow resting on the table. _She’s tougher than the both of us put together._

“Did you sleep?” He asks.

“A little.” Alex says. She goes to take a sip from her cup but has to stop to yawn.

“You should go home. Get some rest, freshen up.” Worick says. “There really isn’t a need for all of us to set up camp here. The place is small anyway and it’s already cramped.”

Alex opens her mouth and closes it fully before she speaks, hesitating.

“You sure?” She says. Worick nods. Alex leaves the pot of coffee on the table and stands up from the chair, collecting her things. She gently brushes Nina’s hair with her fingers as she walks past the couch, smiling. When she’s by the door she looks over her shoulder. “Will you call when he wakes up?”

 _If, not when_. Worick thinks, but keeps quiet.

“Sure.” He says. Then waves her goodbye, a goofy grin on his face. “Don’t change, though. I do like that outfit on you.

Alex rolls her eyes but she smiles, then walks out the door.

Hours pass. Nina and Theo wake up eventually but after checking in on Nic turn their attention on Yang, who wakes up not long after they do. Delico is initially nowhere to be found until Nina checks the rooftop and finds him huddled there, blanket over his shoulders and Heather by his side. The celebration is quiet and in the adjacent room, in Theo’s study, but Worick does get a glimpse of Delico’s relieved yet still shaken expression when he sees Yang again - alive and well. Worick has his back to the wall now, standing to the side of Nic’s bed, gaze on the other. He’s stable, according to Theo. Worick watches him breathe, his chest rising and falling slowly. Its silent and Worick is used to silence with Nicolas, but this is different. He can be silent and Worick will still be able to feel his presence in the room. This is a silence of presence and it makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

When it’s close to lunchtime and Nina brings him some soup and buttered bread. She smiles at him and pats his thigh and lets him eat in peace. There’s still blood on her clinic gown from operating and Worick sits there, amazed, watching her skipping away. _Another one that’s tough as nails_ , he thinks, munching on the bread. When he finishes he falls asleep, head on his arms as they rest on the table. He has a nightmare and wakes up in a cold sweat and from that moment on his patience is running thin and all he does is stare at the other with pent up frustration. Nic’s hair is disheveled and there’s a scar on his bottom lip where he bit down on it, the skin around it bruised and reddened.

 _Wake up_. He thinks. No, he _demands_. He’s tired and his thought process begins to resemble that of a child on the verge of a tantrum. He’s by himself for the first time in years and all he has now is a petulant wish for Nicolas to wake up and for them to go back home and for things to stay as they were.

Worick waits. Two more hours pass, and Worick waits.

\---

When Nic’s vision is blurry and his chest is tight and his blood is boiling the three principles don’t do _shit_. What does something is Worick’s belt wrapped tight around his wound to stop the bleeding and Nina’s skilled hands and Theo’s questionable but still effective practices. Nicolas abides by the laws, respects them, but knows that they’re nothing compared to the things that are real - the things that make a difference.

Nicolas knows only three things from the moment he is born. That he’s small, that he’s insignificant and perhaps most importantly; that he’s expendable. That there’s thousands like him out there. These truths are bitter but Nicolas finds them liberating, especially when he begins to grow and has too many people trying to tell him what's’ best for him or his kind. No one _really_ cares. The great thinkers, Monroe, Theo, none of them do. Its just that the legacy of being known as the kind soul who helped the lowest of the low looks attractive to certain people. A person that doesn’t do it for money does it for reputation and another might just do it to secure themselves a place in heaven - it’s all the same. Nicolas knows and he’s fine with that.

Normals are also insignificant. Worick and him are dots in the universe, little specks of dust. Nicolas doesn’t care for existentialism, he only reminds himself of these things to stay grounded. He can’t wish for impossibles like a long fulfilled life, he’s lucky he’s even pushing thirty. Nicolas is grateful for the three principles, even if they’re not perfect at least they’ve secured a more stable life for him, and he has no interest in questioning them or joining an uprising for further change. He’s done. He’s comfortable now and above all he’s a cynic and knows that if the laws change they will just be substituted for other laws and frankly he doesn’t give a shit anymore. He cares about what’s tangible, what he can see and smell and touch. And when he opens his eyes what he sees is Worick, sat down on the bed, next to him. He looks tired and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. _Maybe he’s hangover._ Nicolas thinks, and the corner of his mouth curls up in a smile ever so slightly. He lifts a hand to tap him on the arm and waits.

"What-" Worick’s lips move around the word and Nicolas is focused, waiting for the rest.

\---

Worick feels that tap on his arm and looks down and the other is laying there with a stupid smile on his face like he didn’t just escape death. He’s so relieved and so angry at the same time that his muscles tense up and his body moves on its own. He grabs at the collar of the other’s blood-stained shirt.

“You fucking asshole.” Worick says.

“Charmm...ing.” Nicolas speaks, grinning when the other’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows pinch together.

“You-” Worick’s grip on the fabric tightens and he wants to let the other know just how goddamn charming he can be but his lips are pursed tight because there’s a knot in his throat. He wants so much to be able to still resent Nicolas for his family’s death. He wants to but cannot find it in himself to hold the grudge any longer. The memories of them struggling to get by as teenagers don’t let him and now that he’s realized his urge for the other to stay alive comes from such a selfish desire to not be alone he no longer thinks he has a right. To hold something like that against Nic, something that he probably unconsciously desired. That he _knows_ he more than once wished in the darkness of his room after a beating, bruises burning on his skin. Nicolas did it on instinct, Delico is proof of that. He didn’t want to shoot Yang but he couldn’t have someone else kill his master. Worick knows now but something still eats at him, something rests heavy on his heart. Something he’s always carried with him.

Nicolas tilts his head. He’s waiting, eyes on Worick’s lips.

“Don’t force me to give orders.” He says, and for once he’s glad Nic can’t hear his voice because it’s thin and wobbly and pathetic. “Fuck the three principles. You’re gonna do it anyway - right? You’re gonna do what you have to do. So just- God damn it-” The knot in his throat is still there and he groans, frustrated, and looks away. Is this genuine? Does what he’s going to say come from a place of truth and not some selfish desire? Who knows. But it’s there and Worick is gonna fucking explode if he doesn’t say it. He clears his throat before turning back to look at the other, tugging sharply on the collar of his shirt. “Don’t make me say it unless I really have to, you ass. I care for you. Ordering you around makes me feel like shit and I’m making this about me and you don’t deserve it but, _God_ , just- please-”

\---

Worick mumbles after that and Nicolas can’t read his lips anymore.

There’s something in him that has made him put Worick on a pedestal since they met but Nicolas has always liked him more when he inevitably falls short of those ridiculous expectations. He finds himself drawn to imperfection because it’s real, it’s human. Nicolas doesn’t know whether his desire to stay beside Worick is instinctive. Whether it’s because they _really_ are just beasts, as Monroe said, and will do anything to protect their masters. He has no clue. All he knows is that the willingness to stay with him is there and that Worick taught him how to communicate and that he didn’t whine like he’d expect a rich boy to do when they had to fend for themselves. That’s enough for Nicolas to respect him. But when the other averts his gaze when he speaks of caring and Nicolas sees _Pleases_ and _Gods_ stumbling out of his mouth he realizes he feels so much more than just respect for the other. He sits up on the bed and watches as Worick signals him to keep laying down. Nicolas pretends he didn’t see and lifts a hand, reaching for the others face, and then the voice of his father resonates in his head. _Don’t try to act human, monster._

“Worick.” Nicolas says. Slowly, carefully. He lets his hand rest on the others cheek and doesn’t say anything else. The glimmer in Woricks exposed eye is tired, less vivid than it used to be. But it’s still very, very blue.

\---

Worick’s gut reaction is to punch him because now he feels twice as pathetic. He just sits there, frozen, shoulders stiffened, not knowing what to do. But then the other says his name Worick smiles big and wide and goofy. He tugs on his shirt again to pull him close and they stay like that, one of Worick’s arms curled around Nicolas - hand lying flat on his back. Nic moves, the arm around Worick’s neck shifting as his fingers play distracted with rogue strands of hair that refuse to stay in the ponytail. He tugs on one of them lightly like it's a ball of yarn and it's supposed to come off and when it doesn’t he lets go immediately. Worick smiles.

“I have to call Alex or she’s gonna kill me.” Worick chuckles, his hand sliding up to rest on one of Nic’s shoulders when he takes distance. Nicolas retrieves his arm as well, so he can signal properly, but before he can do so Worick speaks again - a big stupid grin on his face. “You stay asleep a little longer and she’d gotten a promotion from errand girl to bodyguard.”

Nicolas raises an eyebrow and Worick laughs.

_You make me do errands anyway. Talking about not wanting to give orders. Bullshit._

Worick laughs harder.

“Thats different. They’re not orders, they’re suggestions.” He says, index finger lifted in the air comically before it goes to boop the others nose.

_I suggest you fuck off._

Worick winks and Nicolas wants to elbow him on the ribs but he has no strength so he just huffs and makes an indignant expression. Worick laughs again because its the cutest thing he’s seen on that face of his since they were both fourteen and dirt poor. Nicolas glances at the other and takes advantage of the fact he’s closed his eye as he cackles wildly to smile. Its the same boy, the one that laughed on the rooftop until his breath was gone and then shared a meal with him when he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to do any of the things he did for him. Even if he hadn’t done them Nicolas would have probably still followed him. But he did and he keeps on doing them and because of it Nicolas will stick by him even if it means staying in that deep dark hole. The two of them, blind and insignificant and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
